A warning cry from the gypsy girl, who saw the weapon thrown, brought Kenneth around in his saddle so that the blow, which might otherwise have opened his skull in an instant, was only a glancing one. Even so, it opened a gash alongside his head from which the blood began at once to spurt. He swayed dizzily in his saddle, his vision blurring as the ground seemed to rock and heave beneath him.
Had the villain who struck the cowardly blow followed up his advantage, it would have been no difficult matter to kill the knight on the spot; no doubt he would have done so had it not been for the intervention of Krouba, Kenneth’s faithful dog. That creature, seeing his master struck, turned toward his attacker and with a terrifying snarl, leapt at him.
It was a brave man who could see that enraged beast setting upon him and not be frightened. This one gave a shriek of alarm and turned to run, tripping over his own feet and falling headlong.
In an instant Krouba was upon him, his snarls and growls mingling with the man’s terrified bleating and the laughter of the crowd that had gathered to watch the show.
It was not hard to judge what the outcome of this would have been had not Kenneth, never a vengeful man, called his dog back to his side, letting the English knight flee, his tunic and his pride in shreds.
The onlookers, convinced that the entertainment was over, began to drift away. For a moment Kenneth sat as he was, becoming gradually aware of the gypsy girl in his arms. She, discovering that he was no enemy but her protector, had ceased struggling against him and had managed to right herself, so that she now clung to him in the saddle. His arm remained about her waist, and he was aware of the feel of soft warm flesh beneath his hand. The scent of perfume drifted up from her dark curly hair, and when he looked down he found her gazing up into his face. Her eyes were green, a mysterious shadowy green like the surface of an English pond in the shade of the willows.
“You’re wounded,” she said in a low, throaty voice.
“It’s nothing,” he said. The ground had ceased its rocking motions and he would ignore the throbbing pain that pulsed from the wound through his entire head. “Show me which is your tent and I’ll return you safely to it.”
The gypsy girl, though, had been watching the knight throughout the incident. Once over her fear of him, she had discovered that here indeed was a fair “son of the cross.” Although he wore his weapons and armor, his mail headpiece was back, revealing a handsome man with a ruggedly chiseled face. His hair was brown, but touched with highlights of red and gold as if it had absorbed the fiery sun of the desert.
Looking up into his handsome face, she decided that at the moment the solitary “safety” of her tent was the least of her desires.
She whimpered and pressed her face against a broad, powerful shoulder. “I’m frightened,” she said in a whisper. “Suppose they come looking for me again. Who will protect me when you are gone?”
“Most of the women here are not so averse to a man’s attention,” he said frankly.
Her anger at his implication made her forget to be “afraid” and she tilted her face to look up at him again, her eye flashing like green fires.
“I’m not a whore,” she said angrily. “Why do you think I was running from those English beasts?”
“It’s a game I’ve seen played before,” he said.
She gave a snarl, not unlike the snarl of the deer-hound, and lifted a hand to slap him. With a chuckle he caught her wrist in a powerful grip.
“In truth, I don’t think you were playing,” he said. His voice had such an obvious ring of sincerity that it was impossible not to accept what he said as fact, and her anger faded. For a moment more the two of them sat on the horse, looking at one another frankly.
“Who are you, and what do you do here?” he asked.
“My name is Elaine. I traveled originally with my father, but the journey proved too arduous for him and I buried him many miles back. Now I make my living pleasing men, but only with my singing and dancing.”
“And those three were the first to demand more?” he asked.
She shrugged and said, “It’s usually night when I entertain. The men drink ale or wine and there are other women among them, tending to their physical needs and emptying their purses. Usually when I have finished and collected the coins they throw, I slip away into the darkness.”
“Usually?” He cocked an eyebrow.
She met his gaze openly and her brilliantly painted lips curved into a smile. “Yes, usually. I said I was not a whore, Sir Knight. But I’m no English virgin either.”
He smiled back at her; the invitation in her eyes was obvious and her physical presence was no less inviting. She exuded a warm, womanly scent that mingled with her perfume and teased his senses.
“I could dress that wound for you,” she said. “I’m very gifted with herbs and medicines.”
“I’ll bring you back to your tent later,” he said, “when it’s dark. Then you can elude whoever you want to.”
It was nearing evening when they approached his camp. It was no more than a few miserable huts, hastily constructed of boughs and palm leaves and now mostly deserted. The central hut was his, as he was the leader of this almost extinguished band, and a swallow-tailed pennon on the point of a spear marked the hut as the chiefs. But no pages or squires waited by the pennon and that emblem of feudal power hung limply, as if sickening under the scorching Eastern sun. Only reputation defended this knightly emblem from insult, for it had no other guard.
The old servant came out to meet them as they rode up. If he was surprised to see his master accompanied by a woman he gave no sign of it, but helped the gypsy girl down as deferentially as if she were a highborn lady.
Kenneth dismounted more slowly. The blow to his head from the mace had been more serious than he had realized at first, and on the ride back he had found himself more than once on the brink of unconsciousness. Only an iron will had kept him in his saddle and so composed that the girl with him might never have guessed he had been injured except for the blood that still flowed from the ugly gash. She had tried to stop it with a piece torn from her own tunic, but her experienced eye told her the cut needed immediate and skilled attention.
As he got down from his horse, Kenneth’s will finally failed him and before he could say a word to his servant he sank to the ground with a groan.
“That wound needs care,” Elaine said, kneeling quickly over him. “Help me take him inside.”
The servant, seeing the wound for the first time, wordlessly did as she bade. Between the two of them they managed to half drag, half carry him into the dark interior of the hut.
“Water,” she ordered, “and if your bread has molded, bring me some of the mold.”
With the servant’s help she quickly gathered some wild plants and made a healing paste, applying it to the wound, which she then bandaged. The two of them undressed the still-unconscious knight and put him into his bed. This was not the first naked man she had ever seen, and she did not hesitate nor blush when his last garments had been removed and his body lay stretched naked before her. Indeed, her opinion as to his masculine beauty was only enhanced by the brief view before she covered him carefully. He had the lean, hard body of a pagan god; here, she thought, was a man indeed, and as she checked the wound’s dressing, she began to hum a little song to herself.
“I’ll spend the night with him,” she said when the servant returned from fetching fresh water. “He may need a fresh bandage during the night.”
He looked vaguely amused at the explanation but he did not quarrel with it and went outside to sleep. Krouba had remained in the hut beside his master’s bed throughout Elaine’s ministrations. She did not attempt to drive him